


darker than amber

by brookethenerd



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Monsters, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-01-02 21:50:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21168428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookethenerd/pseuds/brookethenerd
Summary: One year ago, the dead rose in Hawkins. After months of isolation, Steve Harrington and the others find the reader holed up in Melvald’s. In search of their families and safe haven, the group fights through the dead infested state.





	1. and I wonder if this'll all work out

The day Hawkins, Indiana fell wasn’t much different from all the days before. Even with the news of a virus trickling in from the coasts, Starcourt Mall was bustling with people shopping and eating and socializing. There was no stocking up on supplies or reinforcing of walls or even the tossing of theories. The town was heavily infested with denial; it was denial that led to the infestation of the dead.

No one knew where exactly they’d come from; no one stopped to question it. When the dead shoved through the doors and started taking down mall patrons, the only thing that mattered was escape. You heard the screams from the food court, but didn’t think twice about it until the crowds made it to the middle of the mall, hopping over counters and pushing through back doors, desperate to escape an enemy you couldn’t yet see.

The screams and panic couldn’t cover the moans that filtered into the air, their broken voices a sickening chorus that sent ice down your veins. Only then, without even knowing what the source of the sound was, did you run.

It would be eight months before you stopped running.

-

Melvad’s General Store, nearly taken out of business by Starcourt, was a surprisingly safe place to hide. In the year since Z Day - the silly nickname you’d dubbed the day of the fall with - Melvald’s remained the only place in town with food. You’d scavenged what was left in the others, and homes in town, in the first months. Only when all those taps had run dry did you break through the boarded-up doors of the general store and find a fully stocked shop.

You hadn’t seen another person - a living one, at least - in a year, since before you’d locked yourself inside the store. Starcourt, from what you could tell, was the heart of the epidemic, taking the most out the fastest. You’d spent a day trapped in a broken freezer before spending another week pushing through town in search of the evacuation party. When you reached the high school, the military was gone. Everyone was gone. All they’d left were a few flyers taped to the brick announcing the evacuation route and urging survivors to reach the outskirts of Indianapolis for the next set of evacs.

Before, you’d have hopped in a car and made it in hours. Now, the road between you and the city was full of the dead, the dying, and scavengers. There was no promise of survival in the city. In Melvald’s, you could survive for years.

So, you stayed. Alone, but alive. Alone, but safe.

* * *

The days in the store were the same. Inventory for a few hours. Rechecking of the chains on the doors and the boards on the windows. Once a week, you slipped out the back door - the only door that still opened - and went out front to check on your ‘security system.’

Though there was no one to salute your genius, you gave yourself a pat on the back for coming up with it. The only thing that kept hungry survivors out of a place that might have supplies were the dead. And you banked your survival on that fear.

With a dozen corpses littered in front of the store and twelve infected chained to the doors, the only way into the store was through them. You’d nearly gotten bit getting the first half into place, but seeing as you hadn’t had a single attempted break-in since the first few weeks in the store, the rewards outweighed the risk.

But, as everything else decent in your world did, it came to an end.

* * *

They came at night, the sound of weapons cracking into skulls and the rattling of chains tugging you from sleep. You weren’t sure if you’d dropped into REM sleep in over a year, always on the edge of consciousness. Those few seconds were the difference between a bullet in a Z’s brain or an infection in yours.

But the noises were too contained - too cautious - to be anything but human. The corpses you’d risked so much for hit the concrete, the chains were unwound, and, eventually, the door creaked open. Anger flared inside you and you pulled a diving knife from your shelf of weapons - all scavenged and stolen, of course.

It was too dark to make out the faces, but four people stepped through the doors with weapons raised; a baseball bat studded with nails, a shotgun, a pistol, and a machete. They split off in four directions, the baseball bat headed your way.

You tucked yourself into one of the shelves, kneeling in the dark, and waited for them to reach your aisle. Their steps were silent - these people had spent the last year surviving too, and you had no way of knowing if they’d done a better job of it - and slow, but they eventually reached you and walked past.

The moment they passed you slipped from beneath the shelf and grabbed them - a boy - from behind, knife pressed to his neck.

“Scream,” you warned in a whisper, “and I slit your throat.”

“Got it,” the boy retorted, stiffening. Far less afraid than he should be. You increased the pressure on the blade and felt the moment it broke the skin - not much, but enough. The boy did his best not to squirm, but you felt his heart rate quicken beneath your arm.

“Okay, okay,” he said. You pushed him forward and into the front of the store, his frame blocking you from any shot.

The other three noticed you, then, and were in front of you and the boy in seconds. The moon cast light over two of their faces - faces you’d never expected to see again.

They lifted their guns at the same moment you dropped your knife, pushing the boy away from you. At the moment he turned, you reached out to flick the lights on - the generator was for special occasions only, but you figured light was the only way to keep a bullet out of your skull.

Nancy Wheeler. Jonathan Byers. Robin Buckley. And Steve Harrington. Not the way you’d known them - the intentioned outfits and put together appearances were replaced with dirt and armor and weapons strapped every which way. Hardened and scarred since the last time you’d seen them. Robin and Steve behind the counter at Scoops Ahoy, Jonathan and Nancy heading into the movie theater.

“Holy shit,” Robin said, first to break the stares and silence. She tucked her pistol away and crossed the floor, wrapping you in a hug.

You stiffened in her grip, the first human contact in…you weren’t sure how long. But a long time. Long enough to make it foreign.

She stepped back, brows furrowing, taking you in.

“Holy shit,” she said again.

“How the hell are you alive?” Steve asked, setting his bat down on an empty shelf.

“I could ask you the same,” you said.

“Turns out we’re all pretty hard to kill,” he said.

“Lucky for us,” said Nancy. You met her gaze with a smile - another thing you hadn’t done in a long time - and let her hug you, though the sensation was still unfamiliar. It was incredible how quickly such normal things became foreign. Talking, being touched.

“The Z’s out there,” Jonathan said, “those are yours?”

“Free security system,” you said with a shrug.

“It worked. We’ve gone past this place a few times. Only came in because…” Nancy said.

“Yeah, that’s my bad. I looted the rest of the street.”

Steve surveyed the place, hands on his hips.

“Looted? This is borderline hoarding.”

A blush rose to your cheeks - the traitor - and you averted your gaze with a shrug.

“Is it just you?” Nancy asked.

“Just me.”

“You’ve been here the whole time?”

“Not the whole time,” you said, stomach-churning at the thought of all those months on the streets, “I was on the run for a while.”

“You didn’t go after everyone else? The evacuation parties?”

“I was too late. And by that point, the roads were clogged. Wasn’t worth it,” you said, “I’m guessing that’s why you’re still here.”

Only the girls seemed interested in the conversation, Jonathan and Steve’s attention grabbed by your weapons shelf. All looted from gun shops, homes, and even the dead, your collection was fairly impressive. Two shotguns, a revolver, an AK-47, and your pride and joy: a sniper rifle. And those were just the guns; you had a pile of various blades and two machetes. Even a lone grenade, which you were saving for a special occasion.

“Paws off,” you snapped as Steve’s hand strayed a little too close to the grenade. He jumped back, sending an embarrassed look over his shoulder. It was the first trace of the Steve you’d known that you’d seen since they came in. The boy you’d known had been carved away into something hard, something you didn’t quite know.

But, then again, all your curves had turned to edges, too. You weren’t quick to laughter, nor did you even smile all that much anymore. There wasn’t much to be happy about; there was no one to share it with.

“We’re trying to get North. We heard over the radio there’s an encampment,” Nancy said.

“That’s where our parents are,” Robin said, “at least, we hope.”

“It’s just the four of you?” You asked. They exchanged glances, secret communication only learned through a year of fighting together passing between them.

“You broke into my house,” you reminded them.

Nancy relented, shoulders relaxing.

“The kids are holed up across town. In Hopper’s old cabin.”

“That’s safe?”

“It’s rigged to the heavens with booby traps,” Robin said. “But nowhere is really safe anymore, you know?”

“Where did you get all these?” Steve asked, nodding to the weaponry.

“I told you. I looted.”

“You’re where all the food went, then,” said Jonathan.

“Most likely.”

“Does that mean…” Steve said. “You’ve got food? Like, real food?”

While the four were certainly stronger looking than you’d last seen them, the hunger had clearly set in. Muscled, but thin, eyes slightly lidded, cheeks a hint sunken. You felt a surge of guilt about the stores of food you had tucked throughout this place.

So, even though the action still felt strange, you smiled, and said, “Welcome to the buffet.”

* * *

The kids weren’t expecting anyone back until the next day - the day was dangerous, but the nights were worse - so, after pigging out on canned fruits, stale chips, and only-slightly-expired candy bars, everyone settled in for the night. You’d set up a makeshift bedroom in the employee’s lounge - the couch was old but far preferable to the floor - and Steve and Jonathan blew up a few air mattresses, dragging in sleeping bags and settling around the room.

It was an odd sight, all that life jammed into one place. You’d gotten so used to being alone that you forgot how much you missed company. Just the sound of breathing gave you comfort and a sense of safety - though false - you hadn’t felt in a long time.

You slipped out of the room after the others fell asleep and grabbed the sniper, headed for the front door, double-checking that it had been properly relocked. It was comforting and normal, part of the routine you’d fallen into. The last few hours - while exhilarating - were also exhausting; you hadn’t used your voice that much in a year. You needed the quiet, just for a moment. The unbroken silence.

Dropping onto the scuffed linoleum in front of your improved lookout point - in the front right corner, a rectangle cut into the wooden slabs, barred in front of it - and set the gun beside you. The street was quiet, as it often was these days, but if you didn’t look closely at the lumps on the ground you could pretend it was before. The world went silent at night back then, too. The only difference was no one woke up and filled the day anymore. An endless night.

A tiny squeak on the tile behind you had your rifle in your hands in a blink, but you relaxed at the sight of Steve coming down the aisle, hands raised in surrender.

“Sorry,” you said, relinquishing the gun once again.

“We’re all a little jumpy these days,” he said and sat across from you, knees drawn to his chest with his arms slung loosely around them. A long scar traced a line from his elbow to his wrist atop his forearms, and you wondered what shades of hell he’d seen through these months. Everyone had their own version of the horror story, you guessed.

“I’m sorry about earlier, too,” you said. “For threatening to kill you.”

“Trying to kill me.”

“If I wanted you dead, you would be,” you said.

“I really don’t doubt that,” he said. Your lips quirked up ever so slightly.

“How long have you been in the cabin?” You asked. The question behind the one you’d posed was clear: how long did you spend out there?

“Pretty much since the beginning. Me and Robin, we were trapped in Scoops. It was Dustin and the kids who helped us out. El said Hopper would know what to do, so we went to the cabin to wait. But he never showed up. And we never left,” Steve said. “What about you? This place wasn’t tricked out last time we hit this part of town.”

You dropped your gaze to your sneakers; one of the rubber toes was starting to rip, and if you nudged it with your big toe, a speck of sock showed through.

“Two months. I think.”

“And the rest?”

“I was out there,” you said. “I jumped from house to store to…whatever. Anytime I thought I was safe, they showed up. I don’t think I slept until the first night I got in here.”

“Jesus,” Steve said, shaking his head, and you lifted your gaze to his.

“I didn’t know anyone was still alive in this place,” you said.

“Neither did we,” he said. “But I’m glad you are.”

Your chest swelled with happiness, the force of it overwhelming. Just being with another person, talking, listening, breathing, anything but the constant violence and blood that had plagued you for the last year. It was intoxicating to simply live with someone else. Nowadays, humanity was a rare commodity. To find a little bit - the last of it in Hawkins - with people you remembered, people you’d believed to be dead, was a miracle. You’d given up on miracles - on hope - a long time ago. But it was hard not to believe, just a little bit, right then.


	2. the first full laughter

Dying is easy. You’ve watched death plunge his hands in and pluck whatever he wants - like a child digging marbles out of a bag - for a year. Inside the store you could pretend it had frozen - you couldn’t lose people if they weren’t there. Isolation bred loneliness, but it also bred safety - at least in this world.

Then Steve Harrington and the others had shown up and barreled right through your safety net and put your easy life at risk.

The morning after they arrived you woke to the sound of life for the first time in a long time. Nancy and Jonathan were deflating the mattresses, talking softly to each other as they folded, and Robin was sprawled across another, humming. Such simple actions that you’d taken for granted.

Which was why, when Steve asked you to come with them, you said yes. Because you were tired of humanity taking the backseat. Because you were tired of just _surviving_.

You wanted to remember how to live.

The first order of business was stocking up. You’d collected far too much food, toilet paper, and weaponry to just leave it behind, and it would be enough to sustain all of you on the road to Indianapolis.

“We’re parked just up the street,” Steve said, the five of you huddled around the window, pointing to a faded black truck, “but it won’t fit all of us, and it sure as hell won’t carry much.”

You scanned the lot - the stillness still unsettled you after all this time - and spotted a big white truck.

_That’ll work._

“There,” you said. “We can work with that.”

You unchained the doors and set them aside, but the clear path to the van had disappeared. The Z’s were always more active in the morning; you knew fuck all about how they worked, but too much noise drew them, and if they caught a glimpse of you through a window, they’d spend the day banging away until you went out and dropped them.

Nancy tugged her rifle off a shelf and lifted it, but you slammed the barrel down.

“Too loud,” you said and grabbed a machete from your pile. Steve picked up his bat - you made a mental note to bug him about trying it out - and stepped out onto the sidewalk beside you.

The first two went down easily, a blade in one skull, and a nail in the other. The four remaining grumbled at the realization food was standing in front of them and started toward you. Steve lunged, swinging up with the bat and nearly beheading the Z. It smacked the ground, head lolling in a way that almost made you nauseated - which was saying something, especially these days. You reached for the ripped cloth of the Z approaching you’s shirt - luckily, you didn’t recognize her - and tugged her close, bringing the machete up. You said, “Sorry, but not really,” before jamming it into her skull.

You’d managed to down three of them on your own, and after the first that Steve killed, only two remained. They were ambling toward him, dead fingers stretched out, yearning, moaning. One of the nails in the bat had gotten caught in a skull - he needed longer nails - and Steve tugged on it, but the weapon didn’t budge. His gaze darted up to the Z’s approaching him and the hand that wasn’t pulling on the bat patted around him, presumably searching for a weapon to defend himself with.

The searching had wasted seconds he could have used freeing the bat. Seconds that had allowed the Z’s to get close - too close. You gripped the handle of the machete and ran to him, swinging as hard as possible, the blade slicing through the first neck and getting lodged in the second. The first Z fell in pieces, but the second was still on its feet, your blade in its neck. With a growl, you lifted a foot and _kicked_, the force freeing your blade and sending the Z to the ground.

It stopped moaning when you jammed the heel of your boot into its skull.

Steve, who had finally gotten his bat free, stared at you in shock.

“Jesus,” he said.

“Jesus had nothing to do with it,” you said, heading over to the van and forcing the door open. The others followed, gathering around the car as you scanned it for hiding passengers, only climbing into the front seat when you saw it was clear.

“Do you have the keys?” Nancy asked.

“No,” you said, “but I’m hoping _they_ do.”

You scanned the floorboards, dug your hands into the underbelly of the seats, and checked all the compartments without finding anything. Frustration coiled like a snake in your gut and you sat back against the dingy seat, cursing.

“So much for that plan,” you said, sliding out of the car and back onto the street. Steve took your place, shaking his head.

“It’s not over yet,” he said. “Robin, screwdriver?”

Robin frowned, but reached into her boot and pulled out a yellow screwdriver that was stained with blood. Steve took it, kneeling down and removing something from beneath the steering wheel. When the plastic clicked open, a bunch of wires fell out, different colors and lengths.

“Since when do you know how to do that?” Robin asked, arching a brow. Steve grinned slyly at her.

“Maybe you guys should stop doubting my skills.”

“Oh, your skills? You mean like that time you-” 

“I swear to god if you bring up that possum-” Steve protested.

“You thought it was the Henderson’s cat, and made us track it for two days.”

“It made a good meal!”

Steve slipped out and stuck his head beneath the wheel, tinkering with the wires for a few minutes, all of you watching from behind. You glanced over your shoulder every few seconds - a habit leftover from a year of watching your own back - and were grateful to find an empty street each time.

“Any luck?” Nancy asked, trying to peer over his shoulder. Steve lifted his head, his confident grin from before turning bashful.

“No,” he said.

“You said you knew how to hotwire!” You exclaimed.

“I do!” He said. “I saw it in a movie!”

“You saw it _in a movie_?” You asked, eyes narrowing and frustration building. Steve nodded earnestly and you threw your hands up, scoffing.

“Jesus Christ…how are you still alive?”

“Universe likes me, I guess,” Steve said.

“Dumb luck,” Robin amended.

“I’m going with dumb luck,” you said. Steve scrunched up his face like a petulant child - you resisted the urge to smile - and ducked back beneath the steering wheel.

“You guys start loading the back of the van, I’ll make sure genius over here doesn’t get eaten while he figures this out,” you said.

“_If_ he figures it out,” Robin said.

“Not helpful,” Steve called, voice slightly muffled.

“But true!” Nancy said.

“Don’t you have toilet paper to load?” He asked.

“Toilet paper you’ll be incredibly grateful for!” Robin said as she, Nancy, and Jonathan headed back for the store. You left Steve just for a moment to open the back door, grateful that the interior of the van was empty save for a few musty blankets. When you returned to Steve’s side, he was bent even more awkwardly beneath the wheel, and more wires were visible.

“Are you going to electrocute yourself?” You asked.

“Not purposefully.”

“Need any help?”

“Not unless you want to get electrocuted, too.”

You grinned, crossing your arms against your chest and doing a quick scan of the street; empty besides the dead bodies - _really_ dead. Robin exited Melvald’s with a tub packed high with food, followed by Nancy and Jonathan with toiletries and jugs of water.

By the time the engine rumbled to life they’d nearly packed the entire car. Steve jumped from beneath the wheel, closing up the hatch and climbing out with a smug grin.

“You were saying?” He asked, arching a brow at you.

“Dumb luck,” Robin said. You snorted and followed them back inside to finish loading things up, Steve on your heels.

“More like a mechanical genius,” he said.

“You hot-wired a car, you didn’t build it from scratch,” Jonathan said.

“Still counts!”

The store had been stripped. All necessities packed into bins and loaded into the vans, the rest discarded or shoved away. It certainly wasn’t a home, nor had it been the best place to stay, but it was safe. Fully stocked. Isolated. Seeing it that way made your stomach twinge, a flutter of nervousness coursing through you.

There was no telling what you’d find out on the road. If you’d find anything you were looking for. If you’d find everything you weren’t.

Robin, Nancy, Jonathan, and Steve did the final rounds, grabbing the few fallen items they decided they wanted and heading out to the van. Only Steve waited for you; the others would be riding in the truck.

You stopped in the doorway facing the store, trying to hold onto the feeling of safety. It wasn’t that you wanted to stay; there was no continuation there. If you let them leave without you, you’d die in Melvald’s. By whose hand, you didn’t know, but there would be no _more_. No more life; just survival.

“You good?” Steve asked. You hesitated, scanning the store one last time.

“I’m good,” you said, and headed back out into the world.

* * *

Steve pulled the van onto the road behind the truck, Robin, Jonathan, and Nancy’s heads visible through their back window as the cars pushed down the road. There was quite a bit of debris to move around, even with the path cleared by them on their way in, and it was an hour before you even made it out of the small town square and into the neighborhoods. Hopper’s cabin was past them, set back in the woods, booby-trapped to the high heavens.

“Do you think your parents are there? In the refugee camp?” You asked.

Steve shrugged.

“Honestly, no idea. My dad was on a business trip to Chicago, and I don’t know if he even made it back. And my mom…who knows.”

“Then why go?”

“Because the kids believe their parents are there.”

“Do _you_ think they are?”

“I don’t know. But they do, and that’s all that matters.”

You let your gaze settle on the decaying world outside; cracked sidewalks with weeds poking through, overturned mailboxes and open doors, deserted cars, and bent bikes, the occasional smattering of blood on the asphalt. You passed an overturned ice cream truck, contents long melted and gone.

“I’d kill for ice cream right now,” you said.

“I’d take anything cold at this point,” Steve said. “I’d pay for a single ice cube to chew on.”

“God, ice…”

“Cold soda straight out of the can.”

“Frozen pizzas.”

“Waffles.”

“Non-soggy waffles,” you amended.

“El makes us check for waffles every time we go out. If I have to open up another box of moldy waffles, I’m going to lose it.”

You laughed.

“I don’t think there’s a single un-moldy waffle left in this country,” he said.

“Oh, I bet there’s a freezer working somewhere with one frozen waffle, just waiting for you to find it and restore your faith.”

His lips quirked up, but it wasn’t quite a full smile; there was something sad in it, too.

“Faith is pretty hard to find these days, too.”

You paused.

“Do you think this is it? The end of the world? _Really_ the end?” You asked, kicking your feet up on the dash. It was a question you’d asked yourself a million times; it was nice to have someone else to say it to.

Steve hesitated before answering. He was overly focused on the road - mostly unnecessary now that they were out of the main blocks and there weren’t any cars to distract them.

“No way,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Because if it really was the end,” he said, “we wouldn’t be here to talk about it.”

“They say cockroaches could survive a nuclear bomb. What if we’re like the cockroaches, and the Z’s are the bomb? And we’re just unlucky enough to survive it?

“That’s really depressing, man,” Steve said. You couldn’t help but smile, just a bit, and Steve smiled, too. “But seriously, I don’t think we’re cockroaches. I think we’re…the most stubborn. The world tried to kill us, but it didn’t work, not totally. And we refuse to let go.”

“You think we can come back from all this?”

“Maybe the better parts of us,” he said.

You stared at his profile, the bumped bridge of his nose - there was a story there that you didn’t know. After so long avoiding people - the pain and the pasts that they dragged behind them - you were surprised to realize you wanted to hear his stories. Even the bad ones; even the sad ones.

Steve glanced at you and back at the road, frowning.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you said. “You’re just not like I thought you’d be.”

“How did you think I’d be?”

“Come on. You know what people thought of you in high school.”

His frown deepened, lines creasing his forehead, and he had a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel.

“Yeah. I know,” he said, pausing before continuing, “I’m not like that anymore.”

“You’re certainly not.”

He met your gaze, a little unsure. “Is that a good or a bad thing?

You smiled, and said, “Good. Definitely, good.”

“You’re not like I thought, either,” he said, almost shyly. You resisted the urge the grin like a maniac and looked out the window, falling into a comfortable silence. 

* * *

When the others had said Hopper’s cabin - and it’s surrounding area - were heavily booby-trapped, you hadn’t realized how true that was. With four different heights of tripwire and tons of cans, a squirrel could barely make it five feet without setting it off.

Steve pulled off the road and into a clearing beside Nancy, Jonathan, and Robin in the truck, a tricked out school bus behind. With metal-boarded up windows, barbed wire looping up and down, spikes protruding from the wheels, and bars across the front windows, the bus looked ready for war.

You didn’t have time to inquire about the machine before the others headed into the trees. The five of you had to walk in a straight line, and you made sure to take steps identical to Steve’s to avoid hitting the barbed wire or getting caught in a fox trap.

The house, remarkably, looked untouched. With wind chimes hanging from the porch and lines of drying clothes, the house didn’t exist in the world like the one outside.

Nancy put two fingers between her lips and whistled, the call resembling a bird’s. A beat later, the front door open, and kids - though, technically, they weren’t kids anymore - spilled out. You knew them from before, had even babysat a handful: El, Max, Mike, Will, Dustin, and Lucas.

“You’re late!” Dustin called. His curls were overgrown, sticking out like crazy from beneath a hat. All the boys were in dire need of haircuts, and everyone was a little too thin, but otherwise unharmed. Safe.

“Traffic was nuts,” Steve said.

“And the lines in the store! Ugh!” Said Robin with a grin. Dustin threw his arms around her and she hugged him, dropping a kiss on top of his head. The four of them had only been gone two days, but it was clear this group had gotten close over the past year, and any absence - especially when death hovered so close - was harder to bear.

“Eggos?” El asked hopefully.

“Sorry, kiddo. Not this time,” Jonathan said. El frowned, and he ruffled her hair, earning a tiny smile.

“We got toilet paper, though. And food. Lots of it,” Steve said.

“Does that mean…” Will said.

“We’re going?” Mike finished.

“Yeah,” Nancy said with a smile, “We’re going.”

* * *

The tricked out bus, it turned out, was going to take you all to Indianapolis. You were only hesitant until you saw the inside.

They’d stripped the inside and packed the back with food, clothes, various first aid items, hygiene items, and gas cartons. Lining the sides were thin mattresses piled high with pillows and blankets. In the front was what could only be called an arsenal: a bucket full of guns, knives, and a crossbow, another filled with ammo.

After seeing it, all of your objections disappeared.

“Not bad, huh?” Steve asked, noticing your awe, lips turned up in a knowing smirk.

“It’s…incredible,” you said.

“Took us ages to get it set up. If we hadn’t found you in the store, it would have taken longer. With that stuff, we can leave _tomorrow_.”

You smiled.

“Thank you,” Steve said.

“You’re welcome.”

You expected to feel only fear at the thought of heading out onto the road again; those first months still kept you up with nightmares. But, surprisingly, with Steve and the others by your side, in a ridiculous war bus, you didn’t feel afraid. You felt invincible. Like maybe, this wasn’t the end of everything. Maybe, it was the beginning of something.


	3. caught me by the collar at the graveside

The bus was crowded with all eleven of you stuffed in alongside the supplies, but it felt a little bit like a sleepover; that is, if sleepovers happened in tricked-out buses with dirty kids who traded ammo instead of cards. The first few hours driving had a road trip vibe to it, with everyone gathered behind the driver’s seat - Nancy had taken the first shift - trading stories and jokes. It was slow going - you had to stop at least every mile to push a deserted car from the road - but by the time night fell and Robin pulled the bus into the parking lot of a store whose sign had long since fallen you’d made it twenty miles.

Steve volunteered for the first watch and you offered to join him, the kids, Robin, Nancy, and Jonathan settling in on the thin mattresses. There weren’t enough for everyone to spread out, so the kids were curled around like each other like sleeping puppies. It was clear they were accustomed to sharing tight spaces; a pang shot through your belly at the intimacy only gained through time. While they’d been fighting together, you’d been surviving alone.

Steve popped the emergency exit on the top of the bus and tugged the ladder down. You followed him up and climbed out onto the metal top; someone had laid down a blanket and bolted it, but the metal was still hard and unforgiving beneath you. At least you didn’t have to worry about falling asleep.

Max handed up Steve’s gun, then yours, and you set your guns down beside you. The parking lot was quiet and clear; there were fewer Z’s along the road, all drawn to the noises of the dying cities. You had your reservations about heading right toward the city - if tiny Hawkins was that full of the dead, you couldn’t imagine Indianapolis was any better - but Nancy reassured you that the refugee camp was on the outskirts of the city, far enough away that it should be safe.

Should be; there were no guarantees anymore. Of any kind.

“You’ve done this before? Gone after your parents?” The answer was evident in their over-preparedness and the underlying tension. Even with all their jokes and lying about, there was an edge to them all; their words were light, but their eyes sought danger, all too quick to glance over their shoulders or flinch at a noise. You didn’t think Lucas had left his pocket rocket out of his hands since you’d gotten onto the bus, like he was waiting for a Z to jump from behind a box.

“Once,” he said, gaze falling to the cracking parking lot beyond the bus, jaw clenching. “In the beginning. We were complete idiots and ran out of food in a month. We didn’t have a choice; me, Nancy, Jonathan, and Robin took the truck out. Thought that by avoiding the main town we’d be better off.” His face darkened. “We weren’t. Almost lost Nance to a horde, and Robin got this crazy infection after cutting her leg…we were trapped for three weeks. And the kids…they were starving, too. We hadn’t booby-trapped the place yet, so they had to defend it.” He stretched his long legs out on the metal, blanket tugging as he moved, and he shrugged. “It was bad. Really bad. So this time, we made sure we covered every base. We might have gone a little overboard.”

“With the war machine beneath us, you mean?” Steve smirked at your words. “Do you think your parents are there?” The smile dissipated and his jaw clenched.

“My parents were on vacation in California when it all went down.”

“I’m sorry.” You knew by now that the words did nothing to alleviate the grief, but you had no other way of filling the silence. And you _were_ sorry. Every single person in that bus had seen too much grief to last a lifetime; before the apocalypse, and after.

Steve shrugged. “We were never close. My dad was a dick, and my mom defended him, so it’s not like we were this picture-perfect family. But they were still _my_ parents.” He drew his knees up and slung his arms around them loosely, half turned your way. “I’m not expecting some family reunion at the refugee camp. I just hope the others find what they’re looking for.”

“There’s no one waiting for me out there, either,” you said.

“Damn,” he said. “Does that make us orphans?” He didn’t seem all that troubled by the realization.

“Depends.” Your lips quirked up. “I think I missed my birthday.”

His brows arched. “Shit. You’re right. I might be, like, an adult.”

“_Like_ an adult? You’ve been living on your own for a year, technically raising a shit load of kids. Pretty sure you’re _definitely_ an adult.”

“Jeezus.” He shook his head. “We’re adults.”

“Time to choose a career to sign our souls too.”

“If killing Z’s counts as a career, I think you’ve got a future in the industry.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” you tasted. Steve grinned and stretched his legs out again, feet hanging over the edge of the bus. The parking lot was still quiet; you hoped that meant there were no Z’s around, or if there were, they were safely stuck behind long-closed doors.

“What would you have done if the world didn’t go to shit?” He asked. You frowned. You’d had a lot of time to mull over the question; long and dark nights in which the possibilities drew you further and further into insanity. There was no point ruminating over a collection of lives you’d never get to live. There would be no college or apartment hunting or job applications ever again. This was the future. Bloody and violent and grief-tinged.

Your gaze strayed to the abandoned grocery store across the lot. How many people had gone in on Z Day, not knowing it was the last time they’d ever haggle over the price of a pound of deli meat or sneak too many samples from the candy section? How many people never made it past the walls, destined to roam a deserted grocery store until they withered away? And how had they ended up there, and you’d survived? Why were you and Steve and the group in the bus below the ones who made it?

Steve noticed the darkness creeping over your face and touched your arm gently; you flinched. Your cheeks flushed.

“I said something stupid, huh?” He asked. “Good to know my best qualities survived the apocalypse.”

You shook your head. “Not stupid. I just…don’t think a lot about before or what I might have done. What I might have been. It’s kind of pointless, you know? To dream about a world that we won’t ever get to see?”

His lips pulled thin. “It’s crazy to think about what we complained about. The worst thing in my life was my shitty job slinging ice cream. And my dad, never getting off my ass about it. Feels dumb, now.”

“I’d give anything to get a lecture from my parents,” you said. “I’d actually _pay_ _them_ to yell at me for not showering or changing my clothes and spooning a rifle every night. To see the horror on their faces…” Steve’s lips turned up in a grin, though it was a little sad.

“I’d _kill_ to get grounded again.”

“God, that sounds great. Send me to my room for a week.”

“Just leave plates at my door,” Steve said.

“Like room service!”

You both laughed, but it died out quickly, too quickly. The sadness weighing over the conversation like a fog was too hard to see past for that long; it always settled back over you. The reality was, all the people who’d taken the responsibility from you were gone or dead. There was a bus full of kids beneath you that depended on you, Steve, Robin, Nancy, and Jonathan to get them safely north. There was neither the room nor the time for you or Steve to be fresh out of high school, at the beginning of the rest of your lives. There were no beginnings anymore: there was the middle and the end. The end had never been pleasant, but now, it had teeth. Sharp ones.

All you could ask for was a happy medium. Or, at the very least, a dependable one. Happy might be too big a request; there wasn’t all that much to go around, anymore.

“Do you really think the kid’s families are in Indianapolis?” You asked. Steve didn’t reply for so long that you weren’t sure he was going to; his face darkened, brows knotting.

“I don’t know,” he said, “if it’s anything like Hawkins, all we’ll find is the dead.”

“Then why go?” Why leave the safety of Hopper’s cabin? With booby-traps and food and protection? Why risk all that on a road that would harm you before it helped you?

“Who would we be if we didn’t?”

His words made your stomach churn. You’d spend month after month after agonizing month hiding; hiding was safe. It was boring, and it was lonely, but it was safe. And yet, when Steve and the others barreled through your doors, you went with them with little thought. Like you’d been waiting - stuck in limbo - until they showed up.

The road they were going down - the one you’d stepped onto - was dangerous and dark and capable of taking everything you’d all fought so hard to survive for. Death’s hands hovered in the sky, and you had no way of knowing when - or who - he’d take. You realized how desperately you wanted to keep them; Steve, the others, all of them. You’d rather have them for a moment than spend another month of safety in Melvald’s.

And that was what you’d been avoiding. The danger that came with caring. Caring for people was dangerous enough before the world fell apart; now, you run the risk of falling apart, yourself. Of being stuck; of being alone.

“Why are you going?” Steve asked. “You could have just kicked us out of Melvald’s and kept the food. Lived like a king.” He leaned back on his hands, eyes on you; even after a few days, it was still unsettling to be watched. Partly because you’d ben invisible for so long, but partly because the person he was didn’t match up with what you expected - what you’d _known_. The King of Hawkins High - if he’d ever really been that - was nowhere to be found. In his place, wearing his face, was a gentle - albeit silly - boy who was willing to risk his life to reunite the kids with their families. Kids that weren’t even his; kids that he’d taken the role of protecting. And with his ex-girlfriend and her new boyfriend, at that.

All the things that had mattered - the things that had mattered to Steve - had blown away like leaves in the wind, until all that was left was the boy sitting in front of you. Somehow lighthearted in the face of all this death, somehow unbroken by the weight of the world. He was a miraculous thing.

So, while you might have lied before, talked around your feelings until they resembled something that couldn’t be used against you, when he asked you _why_, you told the truth. Because you didn’t care if he knew the truth; because you wanted him to.

“I came because of you.”

He didn’t try to cover his surprise, brows furrowing. “What?”

“I got so caught up in surviving…I forgot what it meant to _live_. I forgot that I wanted to. And then you came, and you were smiling and making jokes, even though the world literally _ended_, and I guess I realized that I’d gotten lost. And that _you_ were the way back.” The words didn’t come out with any of the poise or lyricality, all heavy and tough as they tumbled out of your mouth, but they were the truth.

He didn’t say anything; he just looked at you. Looked at you like he’d never seen you before. “I’m sorry we didn’t find you sooner,” was all he said. The world was already small, but it seemed to tunnel even further, until only you and Steve and the dingy blanket beneath you remained.

You bent toward him, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same cool air. You tipped your chin up and bumped his nose with yours; his hands found their way to your cheeks, ten little spots of warm in the cold. Every atom stilled, waiting, but he didn’t kiss you. You didn’t kiss him, either. You just stayed frozen, bent together, eyes closed.

His fingertips traced two lines down the side of your neck, your shoulders, your arms; it was almost better than kissing, the freedom with which he touched you. The fire that skittered along your skin wherever his had been.

You wanted to believe you had time for the rest; you _had_ to believe it.

* * *

You volunteered for the last watch shift, propped up on top of the bus alone as the last tendrils of darkness bled into the pink and orange morning sky. You hadn’t checked a watch in a year, but your brain told you it couldn’t be any later than 6 in the morning. It was peaceful and quiet; the night had been so uneventful, you settled on your back with your eyes on the sky, ears trained toward the road. If someone came, you’d hear them. Z’s didn’t care about being quiet, and people weren’t all that great at it, even after all this time. A year ago, someone could have slunk past you without you noticing, but now, a ladybug couldn’t flap its wings without you jumping to attention.

When the shoe scuffed the asphalt, your brain knew where the intruder was before you even sat up - directly South of the bus.

You jerked up, reaching for the rifle resting beside you and peered through the scope, scanning the parking lot. Whatever you’d heard - whoever - had slipped from sight; that realization was enough to make your stomach churn. Z’s didn’t have the foresight to hide; humans who had an agenda, though, were another story.

You climbed down through the emergency exit flap at the top and back into the bus. The kids were sleeping in various piles on the mattresses; El, Mike, and Dustin curled up on one, Max, Lucas and Will on the other. Nancy and Jonathan were sleeping sitting up, Nancy’s head drooped onto his shoulder. Robin and Steve were sprawled out on another mattress, Robin’s knee in Steve’s back and one of his elbows in her gut. You almost forgot why you’d come down at the sight of them; peaceful, young, calm. The way they deserved to be.

“We have a problem,” you said, heading for the weapons bucket and tugging guns out, tossing them to the others as they woke up. They took them and checked that they were loaded before anyone stopped to question you; they knew how precious seconds were.

“What kind of problem?” Jonathan asked, wiping the sleep from his eyes and handing a shotgun clip to Nancy. She slammed it in and cocked the gun as Robin punched the door button on the bus.

“People, I think. Someone’s slinking around out there.” You made your way to the front of the bus, Nancy and Robin on your tail.

“I’m willing to bet they’re here for the bus,” you said.

“It’s not for sale,” Steve said, gripping the handle of his bat tightly. “El, can you tell how many are out there?”

El’s brows furrowed and she approached the blacked-out windows. She closed her eyes and Mike came up behind her, placing his hands over her ears; the routine made no sense to you, but it was clear from everyone else’s faces that this was normal.

Her face contorted with effort and a spot of blood trickled from her nose. When she opened her eyes, she was grimacing. “At least 6. There are a lot of Z’s, though. They’re blocking it.”

Robin shifted toward you, bending close to speak in your ear. “El’s a telepath,” she explained. It certainly wasn’t the weirdest thing you’d heard in the last year; the dead had risen, so what was one telepathic fourteen-year-old?

“Jonathan and Nancy, you take South. Robin, Lucas, and Dustin, West. Mike, El, and Will take North. Y/N and I have East. Max, you keep the engine hot. Keep a perimeter around the bus; we’re not losing one fucking grain of rice,” Steve said.

Everyone filtered off the bus and to their respective sides, weapons raised and ready. The kids were stone-faced and tense; they looked like little soldiers.

A beat later, at least eight figures appeared from behind dumpsters and deserted cars. But they weren’t adults or Z’s: they were kids. Kids you remembered from high school. Two boys your age that had spent that last summer as lifeguards, three from the football team, and two that you thought might have been wrestlers. But they weren’t high schoolers anymore; you’d seen the wreckage of the fires they’d set, seen their tag littered throughout the town. They were scavengers. Lurking along the road like rats, waiting to strike. And you’d walked right into their hands.

No wonder there hadn’t been any Z’s. You should have known better; even with their wandering, this was a shopping center, and there was nothing close enough to draw them away naturally. _Someone_ had drawn them away.

“As I live and breathe!” One of the boys exclaimed. He cradled a filthy rifle in his hands like it was another limb. “The King of Hawkins High himself! Thought for sure you got taken out.”

Steve bristled at the boy’s words.

“We’ve got pretty little Nancy Wheeler, I see,” the boy said. The others had moved around the bus to join you and Steve; the scavengers gathered in front of you. Nancy stiffened, and if it weren’t for Jonathan’s hand on her back, you’re pretty sure she’d have taken someone’s head off. “And who’s this little flower?” He asked, stepping toward Robin. She lifted her gun so the barrel pointed at the boy’s chest and arched a brow.

“She’s trigger happy is what she is,” Robin spat. The boy smiled, carefree, and the others snickered.

They didn’t see you as a threat. They saw you as the people you were before; as high school kids scraping by through summer jobs at Starcourt, slinging ice cream and frying dough. But a lot had happened since then. A lot of people had died and a lot of fights had been fought - and won.

That was your advantage. They may have home-field, and they may be tougher from so much time out in the open, but they doubted _you_, and that was their mistake. That was what would get them killed.

You met Steve’s gaze and flicked your gaze down to his bat, hoping he’d understand. His brow cocked, and you jerked your chin toward your own gun. His eyes dawned with the realization, and he nodded curtly. You lifted your gun, aimed at one of the boys on the outside of the group, and fired. The leader was too busy checking out Robin - which would never happen, for so many reasons - to notice your movement, and by the time he did, one of his men was bleeding out.

That shot drew everyone into action, and your group scattered, taking cover behind the bus to shoot or darting toward their enemies with knives raised. The leader growled in frustration and lunged for Steve, who swung with his bat. A nail caught his opponent in the cheek, slicing it open, but it only angered the boy, who threw all his weight onto Steve, sending them both onto the asphalt.

You didn’t have the time or room to help him, though. With guns going off all around you, rocks and coins being shot with Lucas’ pocket rocket, and the knives Will was throwing, there was nothing to do but hold your own.

The leader, still rolling on the ground with Steve, kicked him off and darted for the grocery store. One of the wrestlers jumped on him next, leaving the leader to run freely. Your stomach churned; why was he running away? After _he’d_ started the fight?

Only four of his guys remained; the rest were bleeding out on the ground. One was bleeding from his nostrils, his ears, his eyes; that, you realized with a mix of horror and admiration, was El.

You realized what the leader was doing as soon as he reached the grocery store doors and banged his fists on them. Gnarled faces appeared in the windows and doorways; hundreds of Z’s, trapped behind a pane of glass.

Oh. _Oh_.

You didn’t have time to warn them before the leader tugged the door open and darted toward you, a moaning horde on his heels. Your stomach plummeted and you turned back to your group.

The rest of the scavengers were on the ground, dead or dying, and your group was catching their breath. They didn’t see the Z’s, not yet. They wouldn’t see them in time.

“On the bus! Now!” You yelled. The others didn’t stop to question the order, dropping what they’d been doing to run for the doors and into the bus. Steve was the last inside, standing on the steps and turning to face you. His face filled with horror at the sight; you, the leader of the scavengers, and hundreds of hungry Z’s ambling behind you.

There wasn’t enough time. You wouldn’t reach them on time, and you knew it. Not without the leader or a handful of Z’s coming with.

“Max!” You screamed. The redhead popped her head out beside Steve, brows furrowed. “Drive!” Her confusion deepened, and Steve’s face filled with shock and anguish as he realized what was happening.

“No!” He yelled. You tore your eyes from his and met Jonathan’s; he stood beside Steve on the steps, and at your nod, he wrapped his arms around Steve and _tugged_. Steve fell back into the bus and Max closed the door.

“Drive, Max!” You screamed again, giving it everything you had before turning back to the scavenger, who was making for the bus. You lunged and caught the fabric of his shirt, pulling as hard as you could.

He turned - presumably to fight you - but was stopped by the Z’s forming a circle around you. His face fell, his strong facade faltering. He was going to die; _you_ were going to die.

But Steve and the others weren’t. And that was all that mattered.

You shoved at the leader, sending him rocking into the Z’s; he caught his balance, but it gave you seconds to pull the knife from your boot. You lunged, plunging it into the first dead skull you could find, and after a beat, the scavenger joined in; two enemies standing back to back. One of you would fall, if not both of you, and you both seemed to know it, but neither of you stopped.

There were too many, though, and the circle pushed closer and closer and closer until the ripe stench of death burned your nostrils.

The scavenger lost his balance and tumbled into you, sending you both careening back. The last thing you saw before you hit the ground was the bus peeling out of the parking lot, Z’s ambling after them with outstretched hands.

You expected to feel teeth ripping into you, expected fire and pain and death, but it didn’t come. Instead, when you and the scavenger hit the ground, the Z’s reached for him. You kicked out of their grasps and rolled, army crawling out of the throng of dead and staying low until you pulled your aching body behind a deserted minivan. You caught your breath and looked down; you were covered in blood. Not human blood; Z’s blood, the rotten, putrefied brown and red that filled them.

They couldn’t smell you. They didn’t know you were there! The thought nearly sent you into hysteric giggles. If you’d known all it took to be invisible to Z’s was some zombie perfume, you’d have invested a year ago.

The hysterics died in an instant when you realized where you were. Alone. Stranded. Surrounded by hundreds of Z’s. And, worst of all, Steve and the others thought you were dead.

They’d watched you go down; anyone would think that was the end. _You’d_ thought it was the end. But it wasn’t.

It wasn’t. And Steve, and the kids, they were still out there, pushing deeper and deeper into a dead state. You would find them. You _had_ to find them.


	4. at the dune with the dawn

Death was a beast Steve Harrington had become well acquainted with. Thousands - probably millions - had perished on Z Day, and a year of scavenging Hawkins had put him face to face with the dead and dying more times than he could count. He no longer flinched when the dead moaned, no longer faltered when blood sprayed. He and all the others had been carved at and chipped away until they were hardened, until they were more weapon than human. 

But nothing - no amount of death or blood or fighting - could have prepared him to watch you fall beneath a pile of the dead. It was near impossible to see out the blacked-out windows of the bus as Max drove it away, especially from his position; he’d tried, in vain, to stop the bus, only to end up pinned to the metal walls by Nancy, Jonathan, Robin, and El. It was El who really kept him in place, her focus on keeping him still. He struggled, yelled, and cursed, but it was no use. 

Max drove the bus away, away from the scavengers, away from the dead, and away from you. 

“Are you going to behave if I take these off you?” Robin asked. They’d been driving for twenty minutes, the others leaving Steve with a pair of zip ties around his wrists for good measure. Usually, he’d have protested at his own friends - his family - tying him up, but as the minutes dragged on and the panic subsided, he couldn’t help but understand. Going after you would mean diving into a sea of the dead, and not even this hardened group of survivors wanted to risk that. Not for someone who’d gone down in a crowd of them. Not when their families could be waiting for them. 

It wasn’t just him out there. He had the kids. The kids, who’d fought tooth and nail for a chance to reunite with their families in the city. Just because Steve didn’t have anyone waiting for him didn’t mean their dreams didn’t matter. 

You were dead. Steve needed to accept that. Which was easier said than done. Hence, the zip ties. 

He tipped his head back against the bus wall and closed his eyes, lifting his bound wrists to Robin, who slipped a knife between them and cut the ties. His hands fell to his lap, wrists rubbed raw from the initial protest, but it was nothing compared to the pain that rolled through him like tidal waves each time the image of you disappearing among the dead flashed behind his eyes. 

“Steve…” Robin said. It was a rare occasion that she used his actual name; _dingus, Harrington_, and _numbnuts_ were her preferred nicknames; all used with love, she promised. 

He lifted his gaze to hers, eyes narrowed and brows furrowed. 

“If you’re going to tell me we didn’t have a choice, or that it was the right thing to do, I’m not interested.”

She pursed her lips. Robin wasn’t like Nancy or Jonathan or the others, wasn’t interested in placating at the expense of truth. She held up her hands in surrender. 

“I was gonna say, I’m sorry. That’s all.” Steve’s brows drew together, and the sadness rolled into him again, tears pricking painfully behind his eyes. To Robin’s credit, she didn’t mention them, simply settling down on the floor beside Steve and tipping her head on his shoulder. He leaned his head against hers, letting out a shaky breath. 

“I’m also not going to point out the irony of you finally getting a girlfriend and her immediately…” Robin stopped, lifting her head to give Steve a tiny smile, to which he bumped her with his shoulder and groaned. 

“Too soon?”

“I think twenty minutes is always too soon.” 

Robin shrugged and poked him in the arm. “Made you smile, though.”

“You’re messed up,” he said, only half meaning it. 

One thing Steve had learned over the past year - besides the general ‘don’t get eaten by a Z’ part - was that the only way to survive the pain was to laugh through it. To tell jokes and laugh until you cry. It wasn’t dishonoring the dead, nor was it insensitive. It was simply finding joy in moments the world didn’t want you to. Breaking through the rain and thunderstorms just long enough to take a breath, to remember. 

Robin grinned, though the grief was evident behind the smile, and Steve wrapped an arm around her, pulling her against him. At the sight of a hug, a sniffling Dustin and Max slid into it, and after a few seconds, all the kids were wrapped in Steve and Robin’s arms, mourning their losses. 

It was in moments like those Steve remembered that they really were just kids; all of them. Even he and Nancy and Jonathan and Robin. Kids who never should have had to fight; kids who never should have had to lose. 

* * *

Even in the apocalypse, a minivan wasn’t your preferred mode of transportation. Though you were reasonably confident in your new disguise - Zombie innards and guts and blood, oh my! - you were eager to get the hell out of the parking lot and find the others. Seeing as the minivan’s keys were deserted beneath the seat, and the other cars in the lot would likely require a hot-wire you didn’t want to waste time on, it was the minivan you pulled out of the lot and away from the ambling Z’s and the dead scavengers, some of whom had already risen again. You almost felt bad for the bastards, ripped to pieces and destined to wander the very parking lot they’d created their trap in. 

The van’s gas meter was dangerously low, but with Indianapolis still a hundred miles away, you drug it to its last drops. Which, unfortunately, only got you about thirty miles. Thirty miles closer than you had been, but still seventy away from where the others were supposed to end up. 

And so, with nothing behind you but the dead, you left the van where it stopped, stuffing whatever you could fit into a backpack. It would not be a quick trip nor an easy one.

Down that road, seventy miles or so, were your friends - your family. There was never really a choice to be made. And so, you set off on foot through the dead state. 

* * *

The refugee camp was set up in Beech Grove, just south of Indianapolis, and contained over a hundred survivors from various parts of the state. It was an assortment of tents, RVs, and even cars converted into makeshift shelters, all stuffed within the fences of a high school football field. 

The reunion was bittersweet. Only Hopper, Joyce Byers, Karen Wheeler and little Holly, and the Sinclairs had made it. Max’s family was nowhere to be seen, nor was Dustin’s mom, or Mr. Wheeler. Neither Robin nor Steve had expected to find family there, but it was still heart-shattering to watch the kids search for people who were long gone and collapse when they were told the news. 

Nancy parked the bus within the fences, creating a makeshift home for those who had no have families to find. When night fell, Steve, Robin, Max, and Dustin remained on the bus, the kids quieter than Steve and Robin were used to. 

“You guys should eat,” Steve said, “It’s been weeks since we had food this good.” The food wasn’t necessarily good, but it wasn’t canned beans or fruit, and that elevated it to the level of the gods in Steve’s eyes. Non-stale bread, with actual butter, was like crack, and he and Robin had been inhaling it for the past hour and putting themselves into food comas. 

Max and Dustin had picked around their plates, frowning and vacant-eyed. 

Steve moved to sit beside Dustin, Robin beside Max, forming a line of four against the metal walls of the bus. 

“I’m sorry, kid. I’m so sorry,” Steve said, wrapping an arm around Dustin, who wilted instantly, crying into his shoulder. Robin shuffled closer, forcing Max closer to Dustin, and Steve let a hand rest on the redhead’s shoulder. She was holding back tears, and let them go as she leaned against Robin. Tears streamed down Robin’s cheeks, and even Steve had to fight off the moisture in his eyes. 

“I don’t have a family anymore,” Dustin said softly, sounding so small and broken it nearly tore Steve in half. 

These were his kids. Max, Dustin, and El, Mike, Lucas, and Will. He’d protected them for a year, cared for them, soothed their nightmares. And Robin, Nancy, and Jonathan were like his brothers and sisters, now. They’d spent many a night planning and talking about their desperation to keep the younger ones safe. 

It almost didn’t matter that his blood relatives were long gone. They’d never been much of a family to him, anyways. 

But these kids, this group, were his family now; they had wedged themselves so deeply into his heart he doubted it could ever be removed. And you, miles and miles behind them, long gone, were part of his family, too. 

Family doesn’t stop being family when they’re gone. As long as the love lives, so do they. 

“That’s not true, kid. You’ve got us,” Steve said. “Me, Robin, and the others.”

“We’re family,” Robin said, leaning over and dropping a kiss to Dustin’s too-long curls. “We’re a family now.”

“And you’re not getting rid of us that easy,” Steve said. 

* * *

After four days of walking and following the words painted on signs and buildings that read ‘Beech Grove High,’ you found the refugee camp set up inside a high school football field. Starving, exhausted, dehydrated, and still covered in Z muck, you didn’t realize what your stumbling approach looked like until guns were pointed at you. You slammed to a stop ten feet from the fence, holding your hands up in surrender. 

“We’ve got a lively one!” Yelled one of the gate guards from his perch above the fence on a crudely constructed catwalk around the entire field. His partner, a few feet down, pointed his gun at your head, and you searched your tired brain for words. 

“Not-not dead!” You yelled, voice hoarse from disuse. “I’m not dead!” 

“Is that Z…talking?” Called one of the men. 

“Damned if I haven’t seen it all!” Replied the other. You heard the safety flick off and flinched, dropping to the ground and tugging your backpack off and over your head to shield you. 

“Y/N?” The voice came from the other side of the fence, and you lifted your head to find Robin standing with her fingers twined through the curling metal, eyes full of surprise. You let out a breath of relief and Robin banged on the fence, the rattling catching the guard’s attention. 

“It’s not a Z, you nitwits! Now open the fucking gate!” There was no room for argument in her tone, and only a second later one of the men had climbed down and was opening the gate to let you through. You gave him a small and quiet thanks, but he only brought a hand up to cover his nose. 

You’d only had yourself for company the last few days, and had undoubtedly gone nose blind to how badly you stunk. You sent up a silent prayer that there was a running hose somewhere. 

The gate had barely clanged shut again when arms were around you, Robin hugging you so tightly you thought you’d break. She pulled back to look at you, nose crinkling. 

“Jesus, man…you stink. What the hell is this?” She asked, nodding to the dried brown and red adorning your clothes and skin. You grinned. 

“Turns out Z’s are stupider than we thought. Slap a little of their own goop on, and it’s like an invisibility cloak.” 

“No shit,” she said, nodding her head in approval. “Who knew.”

“Not me, or I’d have utilized that shit way earlier.” 

Robin laughed and slung an arm around your shoulders, leading you in the direction of campers and tents set up around the field. 

“We thought you were dead. I thought you were dead.”

“I did, too, for a minute there.”

She stopped suddenly and turned to face you. 

“Steve.”

“He’s here? He made it?” You asked, breathless. Her eyes lit up and she nodded, but after a beat, her nose crinkled again. 

“He’s here,” she said, “but I think he can wait until you’ve had a shower.” 

* * *

By shower, Robin had meant a hose that shot freezing water, but after stripping down and letting her spray you, you were cleaner than you’d been in months. You redressed in a pair of clean clothes - sweats and a soft hoodie - and Robin filled you in on the last few days as she led you to the bus. Hopper, Joyce, Karen and Holly, and the Sinclairs had survived, moving their tents and cars near the bus, where everyone was learning how to live around adults again. Robin said the first time Karen asked Mike to do something he stared at her in shock for a full minute, but the adjustment was a positive one. The kids were happier than she’d seen them in months, Robin said, even with some of their losses. 

“Steve should be in there,” she said, nodding to the bus as you approached it. “When you’re done in there, the kids will be thrilled to see you.” 

You were grateful for a few minutes of privacy and went through the back door of the bus. You found Steve curled on one of the mattresses, a jacket balled against his chest, sleeping peacefully. Your heart swelled and you knelt beside him, careful to wake him slowly. 

His eyes slid open and settled on you, confusion dotting his features. He jerked up, brows furrowing, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything. He simply reached out and touched your arm, as if checking you were actually there. When he fingers landed on you, his gaze snapped to yours, lips parting in shock. 

“You-you’re-how are you-”

“It’s a long story,” you said. 

“You’re really here?”

“I’m really here.” 

His hands made their way to your arms, sliding up over your shoulders, settling on your cheeks, as if each moment his fingers found purchase was a miracle. 

“I saw you go down. I saw you…”

“I thought I was dead, too. And then I wasn’t.”

He shook his head, lips curling up in a relieved smile. 

“Thank god for that.” 

He tugged you closer, forehead dipping against yours, his breath warm on your lips. 

“I really thought…”

“I’m okay,” you said, nudging his nose with yours. He nudged it back. “I’m okay now.” 

“The kids…have you-”

“In a minute,” you said, “but right now, I just want to be here with you.” His lips curled up in a smile, and you tilted your chin, meeting his lips with yours. 

It was a careful kiss, a gentle one. Soft and tender and as precious as a bird’s wings. 

You parted your lips against his, deepening it, and Steve’s hands moved to your waist, drawing you closer to him. You stayed that way until your lungs demanded a reprieve, pulling back and meeting his gaze with a smile. His own lips tugged upwards in a grin, and he leaned forward to drop a kiss on your forehead. 

“Our family’s waiting,” he said, climbing to his feet and holding out a hand to you. You smiled and took it. 

And then he led you out of the bus, where your patchwork quilt of a family waited. 

There was still a broken world outside the fences, still mountains of grief and loss to wade through, but with the others at your side, you weren’t afraid to face it. With Steve at your side, you could do anything. 


End file.
